You know the old children's rhyme, "sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me." That phrase is a lie. Sticks and stones can do physical damage; it's true. But words, for good or bad, can root into our souls and change us in ways that sticks and stone can never touch.
Words have power for good and bad. Think, for example, of the words that told you that you would be a parent or a grandparent for the first time. When your boss gave you that big promotion at work you'd been working so hard for. When your significant other first said "I love you." Think of the way those words shaped your identity, as a parent, as an employee, as a person of value.
Think now of the opposite side of the equation, of word's power to hurt. Think of the jab that spelt the end of a relationship. The words spoken that you immediately wished you could take back. The thoughtless Facebook post, the question left unanswered, the words spoken in anger that cut deeper than truth. Sticks and stones may break our bones, but words can hurt and heal the places sticks and stones can never reach, our very hearts and souls.
And then there are times when words are not enough, when all the words in the world fall short. Sticks and stones have a conclusiveness to them, a swing or a throw and the damage is done. But words. The uncertainty of a word can root into our lives and fester, what seeming at first so tiny becoming so powerful. Waiting for a test result. Waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for an apology to be accepted. Lifting a prayer to God and wondering, what now. Words have power even in their absence, and sometimes we long for something more than words, something solid that we can hold onto.
Our gospel readings for these last few weeks have been all another words. Jesus started the whole thing off with a miracle, feeding the five thousand on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. A miracle of abundance that people could touch and taste. Sticks and stones of bread and fish to fill their empty stomachs.
But from there on, Jesus filled them with words. Good words of promise, hard words of challenge, ambiguous words of uncertainty. So many words have filled the crowd; have filled us, these last four weeks. What are we to do with all these words?
Last week we heard the initial grumbling of those for whom the words had become to heavy to bear. “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?” Today that grumbling became more pronounced. “This teaching is difficult, who can accept it?” It was just too much for some of the disciples, who, the Gospel tells us, “turned back and no longer went about with him.” It was too much, the words were just too much, they couldn’t understand it, they couldn’t comprehend it, and they left. So Jesus turned to the twelve and asked them, “Do you also wish to go away?” And Simon Peter said to Jesus, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”
Which of course is the right answer, right? Of course, Peter is the hero of the day. “Lord, to whom shall we go?” We love the line so much it’s a part of our liturgy. We didn’t sing it this morning, but certainly the tune is familiar. “Alleluia, Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. Alleluia.” Do you recognize it? It’s one of the Gospel acclamations we sing regularly before the reading of the Gospel. Next time you hear it, now you’ll know the context, it comes from right here in the sixth chapter of John.
So we want to go with Peter, but Peter is a complex character. It won’t be all that many chapters before Peter will stand in courtyard beside a charcoal fire and the one who proclaimed, “Lord to whom shall we go” will deny knowing the Lord at all.
Words, human words, are fickle. We see it in Peter, we see it in the crowds, we know it in ourselves. The one who proclaimed “Lord, to whom shall we go,” will deny the Lord in a courtyard. We don’t know what happened to those who announced, “This teaching is difficult, who can accept it,” but we know just a few verses before Jesus fed those very same doubters with the bread and fish of abundance.
But Jesus words are not like our words. Not like Peter’s confidence or denial, not like the crowds’ search for Jesus or their turning away from his promise. Jesus words have power because they are not ambiguous ideas, they are words anchored in tangible promise. I am the bread of life, whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me and I in them. There is no uncertainty in Jesus words, no questions left open, no level to live up to or checklist to reach.
Jesus words are words we can touch. When Peter said, “You have the words of eternal life,” his statement was more true than I think Peter even knew. Because it was not just that Jesus has the word, but that Jesus is the word. Jesus’ words are not just spoken, Jesus’ words are embodied, Jesus’ words are lived. Jesus is the Word made flesh, words we can touch and feel and taste. Words that took on human form, pulling on sinews and muscles and bones, fitting the Word like a familiar sweater out of the closet after a long summer. Jesus Word is also a word of challenge, a word that drives us forward. The sweater sustaining us with warmth so we can enter into a cold world to be about the work Jesus is calling us to.
Jesus, the Word made flesh, is a Word we can touch. And no place is that made more clear for us than in the sacraments. Sacraments are by definition a word and an element. A word and a promise. Jesus said, “go and baptize,” and with this Word and water, we are redeemed. Without the Word, water is just water. But without water, the word can be hard to comprehend. But because we can touch it, feel it, run our hands through it, pour it on our heads, we can know that this thing we touch is Word made flesh for us. Word incarnate in the promise of Christ’s word. Word that makes us new.
This month our worship has had a special emphasis on the Eucharist, and as a sacrament, it to is Word and element, thing and promise. Jesus said to his disciples, I am the bread of life, I am the cup of salvation, whoever eats and drinks of me will have eternal life. We know this to be true because we can touch it, we can feel it, we can taste Jesus in our bodies and we can experience being transformed by the living word made flesh of Jesus.
“This teaching is difficult,” the disciples said, “who can accept it.” But around this table, we are not asked to accept it, we are only asked to do it. Come, eat and drink of the one who gave himself for us, the Word made flesh, the fulfiller of promise, the giver of life. Come, because this bread and cup are the words of eternal life. Thanks be to God. Amen.
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